


Mercy

by mechafly



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkwardly poetic basketball players, Church-going, Gay Christians, M/M, Paparazzi, Sad times, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechafly/pseuds/mechafly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for a prompt on NBA_Kink: </p><p>"Jeremy finds out how Landry really feels about him, and he turns him down gently. It's all cool (or so Jeremy thinks) and they're still best friends. But then Landry starts to move on and Jeremy realizes that he has fallen for his best friend after all. I guess I'm in the mood for some heart breaking story so do your worst."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The title is from the [Kanye West song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Dqgr0wNyPo)  
> 2\. This was the first fic I ever posted to the internet. It was originally [posted](http://nba-kink-meme.livejournal.com/297.html?thread=22825#t22825) anonymously on NBA_kink in April 2012 after Easter break.

We're in bed together. 

Jeremy is stretched out next to me, all pale skin and relaxed muscles. This close, I can see that his eyes are closed, his expression serene. I think he must live a peaceful life. Everything Jeremy does is informed by clear, simple certainty. But I can tell he's not sleeping.

\--

Tonight we are thrashed in a blowout defeat by the Raptors, and the only thing that stings worse than defeat is that fact that we'd expected to win. In the locker room afterwards, Coach cuts us down for the cardinal sin of pride, for failing to deliver. 

"Landry," he tells me with what sounds like grave finality. "I like you, but if you're not earning your keep out on the court, I will put one of these guys out there in your place. It's that simple." The silence after that is sickening.

All in all, it's one of those nights when Jeremy climbs into my car with me before I even have to ask. It's night by now, and the bright lights of New York roll over us rhythmically as the car makes its way north. Jeremy has this funny habit of talking endlessly when he's really tired. He doesn't expect me to respond, and I don't. I'm afraid of what I might say. Instead I drive, and listen to the way his voice gets scratchy with exhaustion. He talks about what he wants for dinner, how he's been craving doughnuts the whole week, our prospects against our next opponents. Every so often, he shifts in his seat or peers out of the window at the streets passing by. I glance up at the back of his neck, exposed and pale between his loose, dark shirt and his close-cropped hair.

Listening to him ramble gets my mind off my too-hesitant plays, my forever-broken jumper, and Coach's flat voice as he asks me, again, to explain myself. Jeremy never brings my gameplay up at times like this. And in return, I don't talk about his knee, even after that game against the Sixers last week. He waited til he was back in my car before clutching his leg and gasping tears of pain—"Shit, _shit_ ,"—and I just drove in silence the whole way.

We pick up takeout on the way home and Jeremy goes quiet as he stares at the food with hungry eyes. Back home, we watch reruns of Community as we chew our food. An exhausted silence overtakes us. "Stay over?" I ask eventually. Jeremy nods, patting the armrest of the couch. I shake my head, even though I'm nervous as hell to be saying this. "You can't sleep on this old thing, it'll make your knee worse."

Jeremy hesitates. "I'll go home then," he says eventually, but it's weak. We need each other too much at times like this, when the nervous tension after a game feels like it might snap at any moment and snap us with it. We keep each other in balance, even if all we're doing is sitting side-by-side on my old couch eating burgers and watching bad television.

"Come up with me. We'll share." When Jeremy raises his eyebrows, I force a tired, sweaty smile onto my face. "C'mon, I'm tired."

\--

It’s not the first time we’ve shared. Jeremy perches on the edge of my bed as I turn off the lights in the adjoining corridor and bathroom. When it’s dark enough that he’s just an outline, I hear fabric moving on muscle as he undresses. He tugs off his shirt and folds it into a neat square. His movements are small and precise. He does the same with his pants and the bedsprings squeak as he rolls under the covers, pulling his legs up. And I’m silent the whole time, like I’m not watching and listening. We both know I am. 

And Jeremy’s not stupid. He knows I touch him a little too often on the court and off it, just like he knows I’m watching him take off his clothes right now. He knows me way too well to not suspect that my feelings for him are on the wrong side of friendly. But he doesn’t do a damn thing differently. He’s unshakeable. No, it’s me who’s afraid.

Maybe it’s because of this faith I have in Jeremy that I don’t stop with just watching. I reach over and hug him close. And he lets me. He feels good, an armful of muscle and warm skin and quiet breathing that feels and smells like familiarity. All I can think is that I want to get to know every inch of his strong, athlete’s body. It’s a terrifying, tempting thought. 

On a reckless whim, I press my lips to the top of Jeremy’s head, to where his hair is shaved close to his skin. I nearly panic when I feel him shudder and shift in my arms. He rolls over onto his side and puts his arm around me as well. His body heaves with a long sigh and I can feel all of him against me now, the line of his back and his slim waist under my hands. God, he’s so warm. And I’m sweating all over. I wonder if he’ll be disgusted. I feel him relax. He’s tired, after all. 

It occurs to me that I may never get to be this close to Jeremy again. And even though he’s right here with me, I suddenly ache with how much I already miss him.

I reach up and stroke his temple, trace the shell of his ear with my fingers. I guess I just can’t get enough of him. Greed, another cardinal sin. Jeremy looks up at me and this close, it’s too dark to see anything but the curve of his mouth. I kiss him. And he kisses back, grunting in surprise into my mouth. He tilts his head back and lets our tongues brush. It’s slick and warm and brief.

We part just a fraction. His eyes are dimmed. “I want you,” I murmur against his mouth.

Jeremy is still as stone. His eyes close again. I wonder if whether he heard me at all. I imagine him punching me for what I just said. I conjure up some of that on-court aggression and anger of his into an imaginary fist, slamming into my jaw. I imagine him storming out of my house, stopping only to pull his clothes back on. What would any of it mean? That I’d done something wrong, something catastrophic? It’s not in Jeremy’s nature to accuse, only to forgive. To lie here in my arms with a clear conscience, and let me stew in my own guilt.

Later, aching with self-pity, I lift my head to get a better look at his face and find him slack-mouthed and dreaming.

\--

The next morning we take my car back to practice. Jeremy looks over and says, “Landry, we’re still friends, right?” He smiles, his dimples crinkling. In the morning light he’s pale and exhausted, and it aches way too much to see him smiling.

I manage to grin, because I’m marvelling again at how easy it is for him to trust. “Yeah,” I say.

 

 

 

We don’t make the playoffs. 

I watch our final qualifying game on television, my knee injury making it pointless for me to travel anywhere with the team. The hazy apathy I feel seems to be reflected in the nervousness of the entire team. Landry looks grim out there. When I shamble away for a bathroom break, I return to find that we’ve given up twenty points in my absence. Whatever feeling of hopelessness pervades the team seems to have caught Coach and the fans, too. I get an early night and toss and turn in bed, phantom pain in my knee teasing cold sweat all over me.

I wake up to calls and texts, from the team, from my parents, from Coach. I get the whole “Jeremy, it’ll happen next year,” treatment. You know—it’ll happen, when I’ve got more experience, or when I learn to pass to Melo’s spots, or when my knee isn’t busted. I guess what bites, really, is that I know it isn’t true. We could have done it this season. I could’ve done it. Something about having the odds stacked against me makes me restless and determined. 

I lie awake and it’s like I’m pinned to the bed by a suffocating weight. My room’s dark and I can’t make myself get up. The days have already felt like they’re stretching on forever, when all I’m doing is eating and sleeping and rehabbing and talking to the media, to sponsors. I miss the game. I miss feeling alive, pulse beating in my ears when the damp, pebbled basketball’s in my hand and suddenly I’m in imminent danger of being hurt. I miss being kept awake at night wondering how I’m going to fix my defense against the next big tough guy to come my way. Sometimes I talk about this stuff with Landry if he’s awake too, and he just chuckles and calls me a weirdo for obsessing.

And, you know, normally I would spend all this extra time with Landry, just like I spend all my time with him. I guess we’ve drifted apart, though, after what happened nearly two weeks ago. We don’t go out for dinner together anymore. He’s too busy, after telling me pretty quickly that he’s dating someone. That’s his word, not mine, “someone”. I assume he means a guy, especially after what he said, and I guess he’s trying to figure something out. I try not to think about him so much. It’s gotten to the point where I haven’t spoken to him in days, and I’ll be driving home alone and I’ll spot a guy on the street and immediately think it’s Landry, my heart leaping into my mouth, and of course it isn’t him. So in essence, I’m turning into a crazy pining loser. And I don’t like it. It’s easier to just not think about him.

I eventually have to get out of bed to let my yoga trainer in when she rings the doorbell. Thankfully, she has no interest in basketball and doesn’t offer any condolences. Afterwards I’m sore and my mind keeps tricking me into feeling pain in my knee where I’ve been told there is none, and it’s slowly driving me nuts. I can’t stand being stuck in my apartment thinking about everything that’s gone wrong for a second longer, so I go out for lunch. I don’t bother to change out of my yoga outfit—an old black Nike hoodie and grey jogging bottoms—since I figure I look decent. I end up walking to the local Chinese takeout, even though most cheap Chinese tastes crappy, it’s still comfort food. And I figure I don’t exactly need to worry about what I’m eating now that I know my season just ended. 

The thing is—the takeout place is only a road away from my house, but on my way back, I turn a corner and suddenly ten or twenty people are swarming around me. Cameras click and flash to life and I even recognize some of the photographers in the crowd. They shout all kinds of things at me, my name and news of last night’s defeat, trying to goad me into responding. When I cross the road to avoid them, they run ahead of me. And lamely enough, I can’t get past them because I’m stuck walking slow, what with my bad knee and all. I avoid eye contact, and imagine the photos that’ll be in the paper tomorrow. Photos of me hobbling down a street, looking freaked out, carrying a plastic bag with a container of rice. Not exactly story of the month.

Even though I shouldn’t let it faze me, I wish I weren’t alone, that I had someone to deflect some of this disconcerting attention. Landry has a habit of getting in the way of the paparazzi, just by generally being bigger and taller and difficult for people with heavy cameras to get around, and as I get mobbed by strangers, I really, really miss my best friend.

Thankfully the photographers don’t try to do anything weird like break into my apartment building, and I escape them when I get back inside. The reminder of Landry leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, though. I end up barricaded in my apartment, eating way too much food, and compulsively checking my phone. No texts from him, no calls.

I _don’t_ want to think about Landry. Because, the truth is about me and Landry is way too complicated, and way too dangerous. I like Landry a lot, and he’s my friend, and he’s a wonderful person to talk to, and that’s the way things should be. But right here’s the dangerous part. I could love Landry. I could love him. I just don’t want to.

 

 

 

With our playoff season long cremated, the team seems to want to do nothing but party. It’s pretty much Melo’s fault, really, for taking the whole leadership thing way too seriously—I get a text from him with a time, a date, and a venue, and the message, “Landry, b there! :) Melo x” 

Well, there you go. I turn up, and I end up taking John, a guy I’m kind of sort-of-dating but not really. He’s small and really funny, and he doesn’t mind when I introduce him to everyone as “a friend”, either. Possibly, he’s too star-struck to care. I can’t help but notice that Jeremy is deep in conversation with Jared and nursing an orange juice, and either way he takes no notice of either me or John. Speaking of John, I have to drag him away before he asks someone to sign his chest.

So the night is, um, fun.

I take a tequila shot off a stranger’s bulgy, veiny wrist because someone dares me, and after that I take another, and another, and another, until I lose count. I even manage to have a conversation with Melo, who nurses a violently pink cocktail and looks to be enjoying our early off-season more than anyone. The guys with wives and kids excuse themselves over the course of the evening, Melo excepting, and I’m pretty sure I dance really drunkenly with John for freaking ages.

It’s 3am when I next check my phone for the time. I’m sitting by a toilet bowl in the men’s, and have thrown up whatever dinner I managed to eat before I got here. There are 3 missed calls on my phone, and I can’t muster up the energy to do anything about it. I can’t seem to move right now, either. The cubicle floor is cold and gross, but even the thought of getting up makes me feel sick. I get that empty, stripped-down feeling of being truly exhausted. I’m in the mood to pray, and to listen to Jeremy’s voice as he rambles for half an hour straight about all sorts of random things. 

I suddenly experience the vivid memory of Jeremy running his hands through my hair. We’re at home. There are tears on my face, and it’s because we’ve just got back from a game and I started crying, but Jeremy doesn’t care at all. I don’t know him that well at this point, and I remember my surprise, my fascination with that desire to forgive. Jeremy strokes my hair and murmurs, and I feel like a kid again. And I fall asleep like that. 

Remembering this makes me feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, and I groan. As I float in and out of consciousness and try to remember how to breathe, I hear John’s voice. “Landry? You there?” I force myself up and open the door, and John rushes to stop me falling over. It’s nice that he cares, but it doesn’t make me crave Jeremy’s presence one bit less.

“I’ve called you a cab,” John tells me. He hesitates, then adds, “Also, um, Jeremy Lin keeps interrogating me about, like, where you are and stuff. Is he kinda intense or is it just me?” He says Jeremy’s name in reverential capital letters, and laughs nervously. 

“Right,” I manage to say, blinking stars out of my eyes as John staggers beneath my weight. The truth is, John’s an old friend of mine who I’d called a few weeks ago to say, “I think I’m having a gay crisis.” John had laughed and agreed to help out, which had been refreshing.

We’re out on the street, and John shivers as we wait. For a cab back to my house. I distantly start to feel guilty as I figure out that John’s probably expecting more from this relationship that I can give. Damn. I should come with warning stickers or something. “Occupied with Jeremy Lin.” With Jeremy Lin syndrome. Lindrome? I picture Jeremy’s face if I ever tell him that one.

“Landry?” Jeremy’s voice doesn’t even register at first, even though I feel John jump in surprise against me. But Jeremy’s face swims up into my vision, and he seems tantalisingly close even though he’s actually five feet away. It finally hits me that I’m drunk. Well. At least Jeremy’s here. “Landry, dude, are you okay?”

“We’re going home now,” John pipes up. Jeremy stares at him like John’s Kobe Bryant and it’s the playoff finals, and John wilts against me.

“You take a cab home, buddy, my car’s out back,” Jeremy says abruptly. “Landry, let’s go home.”

Jeremy proceeds to pretty much drag me over and bundle me into a shiny mid-sized Volvo. He winces, “Jesus, you smell like puke,” and I suddenly feel terrible. “Sorry,”—“Dude, it doesn’t matter,” and he drives. Jeremy’s always been a careful driver, and he keeps his eyes on the road as he talks, sounding hurried and embarrassed at once. “So, um, have you seen this car? It came with my contract. It’s okay, I mean…” I feel him looking at me, but I’m struggling to stay awake and upright and he doesn’t add anything else.

Jeremy parks in my driveway and lets himself into my house with ease. I become pretty insensible to what he’s doing and let him just lead me; I guess even when drunk I trust him completely. He makes me drink a glass of water, change out of my clothes, and brush my teeth. Then he puts me in the shower and I strip off and turn the faucet on. It’s freezing cold, like a knock to the head, but I’m too exhausted to do anything but stand there. After a minute, Jeremy joins me, and I let him manoeuvre me out of the way so he can change the temperature of the water. Water drips from my eyes. Jeremy washes me from head to toe. When I catch the sadness on his face, I have to look away.

Jeremy tucks me into bed after that. He’s wearing nothing but a towel but I grab his arm. “Stay with me,” I manage, and it comes out like a prayer. 

“I will,” he says, and in my confused state I don’t know whether to trust him. He does stay, though, settling down next me and going unnaturally still. The bed’s cold, and I fall asleep like that, head spinning.

\--

I wake up to the sound of Jeremy getting out of bed, and immediately groan and roll over as the morning light hits me right in the face. I doze, feeling sick and sleep-deprived, then wake up again when Jeremy puts a glass of water and two pills on the bedside table. Before he leaves again I realize he’s shirtless, with only yesterday’s jeans clinging to his hips. I realize he’s been wandering around my house like that. He looks good. And it motivates me to drink up the medicine and follow him downstairs.

“You woke up.” Jeremy looks up from where he’s started eating cereal. He smiles, and my heart seriously breaks a little bit. Does he still trust me, after everything?

“Yeah,” I manage, and sit down to eat with him. It’s still early morning, and the sunlight filtering into the kitchen is grey and white. Jeremy still hasn’t put a shirt on. His chest’s slim and muscled and toned to perfection, and I watch him eat his Cheerios for a long moment.

“Landry.” I glance up, expecting admonishment, but Jeremy’s not even looking at me. “Are you doing anything today?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, I’m going to church, seeing as how it’s Easter and all. Come with?” 

This is how I end up digging out a good suit to wear to church while Jeremy lounges around in my living room, still bare-chested, waiting for me. I grin and chuck a T-shirt at him. It hits him directly in the head. Ace baller, people. “Have some decency, dude,” I laugh. Jeremy drives us round to his place next, to find himself something to wear to church other than yesterday’s clothes, and it’s my turn to wait. I don’t really come by Jeremy’s place that often, mainly because he’s lazy and we’ve gotten into a routine of just messing around at mine, but even I can tell how unlived-in it looks. Every room is bare and spartan, except the kitchen, which is full of takeout boxes. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m gonna get fat,” Jeremy says when he catches me skulking around, and then he drives us to church. It’s weird having him drive me anywhere due to his aforementioned laziness, and it reminds me uncomfortably of last night. 

“Thank you,” I cough, “for last night, by the way.” Jeremy flashes me a quick grin. We’re both in a pretty good mood, even though neither of us has slept enough and I’m kind of hung over. Church-going can have that effect on God-fearing men, I guess. Then my phone rings and my good mood goes right out the window. It’s John. He speaks for a bit, sounding tired, and I forget to ask if he got home okay. He hangs up first. There’s a pause, and since Jeremy’s already heard half the conversation, I can’t be bothered to pretend about it. “So, uh, my boyfriend just broke up with me.” 

“Oh,” Jeremy says. A pause. “Uh, are you okay?” 

“I—yeah. Apparently, you’re, um, quote, _jealous_ and it weirded him out.”

“I guess I am kinda jealous,” Jeremy murmurs, eyes on the road as I stare at him and try not to have a heart attack. Well, what do you say to that? I have no idea if he wants to discuss it further, though, and he’s the one that said it. When I’m silent, he doesn’t say any more.

It turns out we’re pretty early for the Sunday service anyway, and we go past the pews and into the chapel at the side to wait by ourselves. It’s shaded here, even for mid-morning, and Jeremy sits close enough to press our shoulders together. I decide to be brave, for once. “About what you said earlier…”

“Hmm? Oh right.” Jeremy’s smiling wryly, a dimple dipping into his cheek. “Envy, right? That’s a cardinal sin.” I nod absently. “But then, temptation’s a sin too. So, I guess…” His smile is there and gone in a flash.

“You can’t win?”

Jeremy shrugs, looking up at the ribbed vault of the church ceiling. “It means God only knows, maybe.”

“I…” I cough, realising I’m more nervous that I thought. I’ve rehearsed this moment hundreds of times in my head, but the real thing doesn’t compare. “Jeremy, I love you. I … thought this would be as good a place to tell you as any.” 

Jeremy just gazes at me and nods. “I love you too, you know. I thought at one point that I could avoid it, but …” He chuckles sadly. “’S more a question of what we’re going to do about it, isn’t it?”  
I wait, sweating through my clothes.

“Landry, can I ask you something?” He gestures around the church, which is slowly filling up with people. “How often do you think two guys have been able to get married in a church like this?” It’s a valid question, and I know what he’s really asking. Can we really be prepared to give up everything, just for this undefinable thing between us? 

Jeremy continues. “And how many of those families do you think would want their son to—” He cuts himself off. “Some things don’t change.”

“Jer, if anyone can change things, it’s you,” I tell him in all seriousness. We sit in silence and while it’s comfortable, Jeremy looks sad. 

“When my…” I don’t mean to begin, but I have Jeremy’s attention, so I’m compelled to continue. “When my parents divorced, I was 15 and… I remember being totally shocked when they told my sister and me. I remember thinking that my parents still loved each other.” I force a laugh. “What kid doesn’t think their parents love each other?” Jeremy just looks sadder, which makes me feel bad. “But it made me think that, you know, loving someone, it’s such a rare thing. And such an important thing. And, you know, this thing between us? I only want it if you do, but … I can imagine growing old with you. I can imagine that.” 

I have no idea where I was going with this so I stop. If that was my one moment to convince the guy I love to give me a chance, I’m pretty sure I just failed. It must show on my face, because Jeremy reaches over and squeezes my hand. Sometimes it’s eerie, how he always knows the right thing to do.

“I’m not really a brave person,” Jeremy says eventually. “I’m not. But you have this way of making me want to try.” He doesn’t say anything else, and the service begins soon after. He doesn’t let go of my hand either. I think about what he’s said, and what it might mean, and whether it’s what I hope it means.

We stand afterwards, and Jeremy’s smiling. “Hey,” he murmurs, as the church attendees bustle out. “Do one thing for me?” He looks around, almost furtively, then tilts his chin up. I recognise the gesture and I’m sure I’ve misinterpreted it. “Kiss me, man.” Jeremy’s grinning up at me and when I brush his lips with mine, he grins wider and then starts heading out of the building with me all casual, like we didn’t just share a kiss in the church chapel.

“Are we seriously doing this?” I ask him, and he nods. “For real?” His face splits into another one of those smiles of his.

“Why?” Jeremy asks. “D’you change your mind?” 

There’s people all around us, but I feel reckless, so I throw an arm around his shoulder. Jeremy leans his head back and grins. I lean close to his ear. “You,” I tell him. “Are never gonna see the end of me now.”


End file.
